


Resilient

by Jezunya



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dwalin POV, Fellowship of the Ring, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Rivendell, dwarves and their Ones, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin had always meant to visit. He had. He’d always told himself, one day, he would make the trek back to the Shire. See again where their journey had begun, pay his respects. One day. That day just never seemed to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resilient

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally write angst like this. I much prefer fluff & happy endings. Um... sorry?
> 
> (Also, Dwalin & Gloin were definitely part of the dwarven contingent at the Council of the Ring in Rivendell & saw Gimli off on his journey. Just go with it.)

It’s been decided. Nine to travel to Mordor, to destroy the One Ring of the Dark Lord Sauron, and only one dwarf among them. Glóin’s son has grown up strong and true, a seasoned warrior in his own right, and he’ll represent their people well in this venture. Better than some others he could name, Dwalin thinks, not bothering to even spare a glare for the shining elven princeling from Mirkwood. Elves, humans, one dwarf, a wizard, and a passel of hobbits… and all for the little trinket their own halfling had carried all that time.

He wasn’t at the council, though Dwalin has heard news that he’s settled here in the hidden valley in the last few years, his burgling days finally well and truly over now. Behind him, Glóin congratulates his son one last time, bashes their heads together in parting, and then hurries to catch up with Dwalin as he makes his way down the corridor.

They’ve none of them seen the little bit in years – well. Some of them had. Balin had. Bofur and Bombur and Bifur a few times too, if he’s not mistaken, whenever they’d journeyed with the caravans back to the Blue Mountains, back where the rest of their kin remained and where their roots truly lay. They were wealthy heroes now, but Erebor did not have the same hold over them; it was not a lost home to be reclaimed for them, but merely an exciting treasure hunt and the promise of free ale. They always planned to drop in on their Shireling when they passed through on the way west, and Balin’s letters from them had made mention of just such a meeting every time they went, reports that a merry time was had by all, old friends reminiscing over their cups and pipes about grand adventures past.

Dwalin had always meant to visit. He had. He’d always told himself, one day, he would make the trek back to the Shire. See again where their journey had begun, pay his respects. One day. That day just never seemed to come.

Balin had always harangued him for it, whenever Dwalin would once again decline his offer to accompany him to the Shire. He had work to do in the mountain, he reasoned, people who depended on him every day – the king’s security could not be set aside whenever he liked, unlike Balin’s letters and studies, he’d foolishly remarked on one occasion.

His brother’s face had grown so still then, and his voice had been low as he’d hissed that there was once _another_ king they’d sworn to serve, a king whose memory Dwalin dishonored every time he chose to remain here rather than doing his duty to one who would have been their kin.

Dwalin knows, has always known, in some deep, cavernous place somewhere behind his sternum, that that is exactly why he has never been able to pry himself from the mountain and make the journey. He knows what he would have found there, in that comfortable hole in the ground, or rather he knows what he would _not_.

Besides, Balin is gone now. Balin and Ori and Óin, and an entire army of others who’d followed them, gone off behind the Heroes of Erebor to try to reclaim Khazad-dûm one more time. As if the place isn’t already haunted by enough ghosts of their fallen kin. They’ve not had a raven from them in months and months, not a word since the last letter proclaiming they’d made it to the front gates and were encamped outside, and somehow Dwalin just knows.

There’s no one left to witness his shame anymore. No one but the one who most deserves his guilt.

They find Bilbo in one of the elves’ many vast gardens, his back to them as they approach, furry feet dangling in the air from the too-tall stone bench on which he sits, idly puffing away at his pipe and sending smoke rings up into the air just as he’d done on so many nights all those years ago. And for just a moment, Dwalin can almost see another figure sat beside him, larger and broader, unbearably solid, long dark hair turned nearly entirely to silver by now, smoking himself, always so competitive to make the most perfect rings, his head bent towards the hobbit in quiet conspiracy, a low chuckle rumbling out of him at something the halfling has said, voice overflowing with warmth, and love, and a lifetime of devotion…

But then Dwalin blinks, and the vision disappears, and Bilbo once again sits alone before them.

The hobbit’s shoulders are a little rounded, his form a little stooped with age, but upright nonetheless, even after all these years. _Resilient_ , Gandalf had said of hobbits, and Dwalin supposes the wizard must be right. For a time, he’d not thought their little burglar would ever recover, he was so utterly inconsolable after the battle, after the quest, after everything, so small and hollow and broken. It is not the dwarven way to fade away after a loss, as elves do, but he has seen many a dwarrow left permanently changed, as though a chasm has sundered the rock of their hearts in twain, never again to be made whole.

Dwalin can certainly feel the cracks at his own core well enough.

But hobbits are creatures of growth, of flowers and vines and trees, ever springing back anew and filling in the gaps, pushing onward and upward, blossoming again with each new year. Perhaps there are scars left on Bilbo Baggins’ heart, but if there are, they’ve long since closed, smoothed over, nothing but a token of a memory left in place of the pain now.

It’s not as though Dwalin doubts what love the halfling bore in years past; he knows what he saw, shining out of both of their faces, knows what it looks like to see a dwarf find their One, their perfect match crafted for them by the Maker’s own hands. Dwalin had been so proud, _overjoyed_ , to witness it, to finally see that happiness he had always known his shield brother deserved yet had feared he’d never find. It had seemed a turning point on their road, a portent that Mahal had smiled down on them.

But it was not to be.

Bilbo turns to look back at them, and for just a moment Dwalin thinks he sees something in the halfling’s face, a shadow in his eyes and a terrible sadness tugging at his mouth, his gaze almost searching, looking for someone before it lands on them – but it is gone as quick as it appeared. His smile is just as sharp as it ever was on the quest, all clever and surprisingly feral for such a polite little creature, and he says that he ought to have known such a clatter could only be made by a pair of stiff old dwarves. He’s a little slow standing up, leaning his weight on a carved wooden cane – _oak_ , Dwalin realizes with a lurch in his gut. His soft little face is wizened and wrinkled under his head of wispy white hair as he looks up at them, but he pulls Dwalin and Glóin into an embrace easily enough, his little arms nowhere near to reaching around the two of them, though he seems to be giving it his best effort. Dwalin gently pats the hobbit’s shoulder, more aware now than ever of the fragile, bird-like quality of him, so delicate and tiny they could have snapped him in half by accident simply by clapping him a little too heartily on the back.

Bilbo chatters incessantly once they pull away. He leads them on a stroll around Elrond’s gardens, demands to hear news of the mountain and all the rest of the company, admits regretfully that he’d meant to travel out to see them all again, but his old bones had simply not allowed it. He’s aged and slow and tired, but he’s still their little burglar, still full of fire enough to put any dwarf to shame, let alone a dragon.

 _Resilient_ , Dwalin thinks again. Creatures of growth and life. Creatures with the ability to recover, despite his own foolish thoughts on the matter all those decades ago. It puts his mind at ease, unclenches something in his heart, and as the evening draws on and preparations are made for the Fellowship to depart at first light, Dwalin finds himself sending up a prayer of thanks, and of apology. He’s not done his duty all these years, just as Balin had said, but at least their hobbit does not seem much the worse for wear for his negligence. He burns incense on the balcony of his room that night, watching the glowing embers rise into the night sky, carrying his prayers to the Maker, and to those who have gone before, those who wait in the Halls.

Perhaps Dwalin hasn’t done as he ought, but he can at least report, finally, that the halfling is well, and happy, and settled. That he’s lived a full life in that Shire of his. That he’s recovered.

He wouldn’t have wanted Bilbo to mourn him forever, after all.

Dawn comes, and they all go to bid the Fellowship farewell and wish them all the luck on their venture. Glóin near shakes his boy’s brains clear out his ears with his wailing and worrying and striking their foreheads together. Dwalin offers Gimli his own congratulations, and his thanks, for he knows he’s really too old himself to be of much use on such a quest anymore, though the thought rankles something awful. Someone’s got to represent their people in this last great battle for peace, though. The elves and men all make their goodbyes, and Dwalin sees the young hobbits all clustered around Bilbo, pressing letters into his hands and begging him to make sure their words reach their loved ones back in the Shire.

And then he sees something else, just a brief flash of light, precious metal catching the morning sun and shining out of the collar of the dark haired one’s shirt – Bilbo’s nephew, he remembers now. The Ringbearer. Frodo Baggins.

Once again, it seems, all their fates rest in the hands of one little hobbit.

The lad shifts as his uncle lays his hands on his shoulders, smiling only briefly at whatever Bilbo says to him, but the change in stance is enough, and the light catches and holds this time, and Dwalin feels his breath stop. He’s not seen that golden beadwork in over half a century, but he’s sure he’d recognize it anywhere. Bilbo’s silversteel shirt just barely peeks up around the lad’s collar, clearly a gift from his uncle, and a well-timed one at that, if this venture is to be anywhere near as dangerous as they all expect it to be.

Bilbo seems to have suddenly used up the last of his courage, and he clings to his nephew, shaking and sobbing, and the boy wraps his arms around the old hobbit, comforting him as best he can.

As if by chance, the lad glances up and meets Dwalin’s gaze from over his uncle’s shoulder, and Dwalin feels himself freeze, pain lancing through him as if he’s been run through, unable to draw breath or utter a single sound. But then Bilbo pulls away, and Frodo looks down at him again, offering one last attempt at reassurances.

The Fellowship is finally well and truly ready to leave, and Bilbo hobbles over to where the rest of them all stand to see them off, taking up a place directly between the elven and dwarven contingents and leaning heavily on his oaken cane. Dwalin watches his face for a long moment before following Bilbo’s gaze across the way to his nephew once more, the lad looking back at him solemnly.

He takes in the way Bilbo watches the boy, the way the light catches on the edges of the mithril again, takes in the midnight dark hair and sapphire eyes, so somber and serious and exactly like another face Dwalin had known so well, had memorized and loved and would have followed to the ends of the earth if he’d but asked it. Another warrior with far too many responsibilities heaped on his shoulders far too young. He looks back at their burglar, standing as tall as his wizened little form will let him, despite the grief crumpling his old face, the tears coursing down his cheeks, just as they had some sixty-odd years ago, nearly the last time Dwalin had seen him.

 _Resilient_ , Gandalf had said. And yes, he is that, without a doubt. His ability to stand here at all, after everything he’s endured, certainly speaks to that.

But recovered?

No, Dwalin decides, and sends another prayer up to the Halls, another apology. No, that’s far too strong a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! (And sorry again about the angst...)
> 
> Come find me [on tumblr](http://jezunya.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
